Angel Falls (Angel Falls Series, #1)

heard at all, but I didn’t care, and I didn’t wait to discuss it. I left him standing where he was, got into my car and slammed the door.
I peeled away from the curb, slowing down only when I reached the first stop sign. I forced myself to stay under the speed limit until I’d navigated the narrow streets through town. Then I hit the long snake of Highway Eighty and floored it.
The speedometer bounced at the right edge of the display. The whole car rattled and shook. About ten miles outside of town, where fishing camps and trailers scattered along the river bank like tin cans thrown from a car window, the Check Engine light came on.
I slowed down a little. This had happened a few times before, but only in stop-and-go traffic when I drove up to Tuscaloosa or Birmingham, or down to Gulf Shores. I hadn’t driven much since the accident, and then only for short stretches in town, so it hadn’t been much of an issue.
Until today.
About fifteen miles out of town, near the River Road turnoff where teenagers and college kids congregated on weekends to party, the engine lurched. Smoke billowed from under the hood. Margot chugged forward, had a few little seizures and lost momentum. I was just able to make the turnoff and pull over into the weeds when the engine sputtered, gave a sad little hiccup and died.
I pulled out my cell phone. If I was lucky, Ian would answer his phone. I wasn’t hoping he’d come and rescue me, but I wanted him to know I’d tried to catch up with him.
But he didn’t answer. I left a stupid, rambling message that probably didn’t make any sense, and the mailbox didn’t give the option of a do-over. The automated voice said a cold good-bye and ended the call about halfway through my stumbling attempt to make things right.
I refused to cry.
I considered it, but in the end, anger won out. Anger at Ben, anger at my stupid, stupid, car, but most of all, anger at myself. I don’t know why, because I still couldn’t think of any way I might have done things differently. I mean, I could’ve said no, but then where would that have left Ben’s kids, whom I loved too much to leave stranded? Maybe I should’ve said no. But I couldn’t imagine doing it, even to teach Ben the lesson he needed to learn.
For my inability to be callous and ruthless enough to stand up for myself and what I wanted—what I needed—I was so angry with myself, my skin could hardly contain the rage.
I thought about calling my dad to come and get me, but neither he nor my mother liked driving at night, and it was already nearly dark.
I might have called Ben. After all, this mess was his fault, and he’d have been happy for a chance to right it. But right now, if I had to look at him, I’d kill him. Or at least, say something that would damage our friendship beyond repair. So I walked toward the river, toward the faint sound of car radios playing and teenage laughter tumbling through the air.
The skunky smell of burning marijuana reached me long before I spotted the group of cars parked near the deserted boat ramp. The headlights formed islands of light in a sea of darkness. I walked up to the car closest to me, where a handful of teenage boys stood, bopping absently to the sound of music coming from another car’s ramped-up sound system. “Hey—”
“Holy shit!” The blunt they’d just lit flew into the bushes.
“We was just...” A tall, gangly youth who looked vaguely familiar moved into the shadows, his voice fading away even before he did.
The boy who’d just thrown probably ten dollars’ worth of weed into the bushes stepped close enough to see me, then even closer so he could identify me. “I’m sorry... Miss Casey? The ballet teacher? What are you doing here?”
I didn’t know any of these boys—well, either of them, because all but two had melted into the darkness to blend into other groups standing beside other cars—but odds were that some girl they knew took ballet, so they definitely knew me.
“What are you...?” The kid who’d thrown the blunt touched my arm. His wide eyes searched mine in the dim light thrown by the confluence of headlights where local fishermen parked boat trailers in the daylight. “Are you okay?”
“My car broke down. I need a ride home, if y’all don’t mind. I’m sorry to interrupt your party.”
“Oh, no ma’am. You didn’t interrupt. It isn’t really a party. We’re just about to... um...” he looked around and noticed that his one remaining friend had also absconded. “I was just about to leave anyway. I’ll be happy to take you home.” He waved a hand toward his vehicle, a low-slung, beat-up convertible with racing stripes that glowed white in the darkness. “Hop in.”
In the car, my newfound friend—who didn’t seem stoned yet, so I felt safe getting into his car—introduced himself. Kyle Kelley—nephew of Ken Kelley the Kar-Wash-King, the over-confident entrepreneur I had declined to date. Kyle dropped me off at the curb in front of my house with a wave and a double-beep of his convertible’s tinny-sounding little horn. I ran inside, fed Chester and Lizzie, then took a bath. I powdered-up and slipped-on the sexy red nightgown I had packed to wear tonight.
Because I didn’t need Ian—or any man—to enjoy the feel of satin on my skin, did I?
No, of course not.
Smelling fine and dressed like God’s gift to any man, I opened a bottle of wine and turned on the TV as the nightly news began. Not that I was planning to watch, because I wasn’t. I don’t watch TV. In particular, I don’t watch the news. Especially not the nightly news. Especially when everything about it was disturbing. Especially when—
The phone rang.
Miffed over my lost weekend with Ian, depressed by the nightly